Mine. Tonight.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Franklin dips Esme like being away from his bride for one night starved him. Everyone cheers. Claire’s smiling, genuinely happy for her friend, and something tightens in my chest.
We process back down the aisle together, my hand finding her lower back as we reach the end. She shivers when my thumb drags up her spine.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Her breath catches but she doesn’t argue.
Photos take forever. Why do they need me for seventeen different poses? First I’m with Franklin, then the groomsmen, then me with the bridesmaids, then me with Claire. As we wait for posing instructions as maid of honor and best man, my insides practically ignite.
Claire’s hand rests on my chest. My arm wraps her waist, pulling her close. My hand spans her curves, making me want to be careful and reckless at the same time.
“Closer,” the photographer says. “Hand lower. Maid of honor, look up.”
Claire tilts her face up. I look down. Her pupils are blown despite the bright sun.
The camera clicks. “Perfect shot, you two.”
The reception’s open-air, strung with lights amid stone columns. The venue overlooks the water, three sides open to catch the breeze. Thankfully, the temperature has dropped. Tables are draped in white, the candles already lit even though it’s not dark yet. Tropical flowers are everywhere in the same sunset colors from the bouquets. Beyond the railing, the ocean’s turning a deep turquoise in the early evening light.
We’re announced as a pair and I keep my hand exactly where it’s been since photos—low on her back, right above the curve of her ass.
Public. Possessive. Everyone can see.
Good.
We’re seated together at the head table, also draped in white. A cascading centerpiece of birds of paradise along with with a mix of tropical red and yellow flowers spill down the middle of the table like a slow volcanic pour, their petals still dewy from the hotel greenhouse. Two oversized rattan chairs with peacock backs mark the bride and groom’s seats, and a low wooden sign perches at the center of the table reads “Mr. & Mrs.” in burned lettering.
The bride and groom are as happy as I’ve ever seen them. But me? I barely register anything else because Claire’s thigh is pressed against mine under the tablecloth. She hasn’t moved it, and I sure as hell am not moving mine.
Our meal is a multi-course affair so that guests can enjoy the island setting. Franklin spared no expense for his girl and his guests, wanting to everyone to enjoy their time. The first course is something called an amuse-bouche, which is a fancy way of saying a one-bite starter. I chose the conch fritter with spicy aioli. Next is a cup of Caribbean pumpkin soup with coconut milk and toasted pumpkin seeds. It was out of this world.
It’s too bad I don’t even register the grilled lobster medallions because I’m too aware of Claire… how she eats, how she laughs, how her hand rests on the table between us.
The wedding party is introduced, and when Claire and I stand together, Esme and Franklin hoot and holler louder than anyone.
“She’s my med school ride or die!”
“He’s available ladies!”
When we sit down, I slide my palm over in an invitation, slightly hidden by the crystal glassware. She doesn’t even hesitate. She laces her fingers through mine, and I run my thumb over her knuckles. Her skin is soft and smooth compared to my calluses. I trace the delicate bones of her hand and feel her pulse jump under my thumb. She makes a small sound in her throat that’s barely audible over the steel drums, but I catch it.
“Hunter.”
“Doc?”
“People will notice.” She’s curiously studying the floating frangipani blossoms in the candle bowl, the petals perfectly intact and faintly pink at their centers.
“Let them.”
Her eyes flash as her thigh shoves at mine. But she doesn’t pull away.
